I stare at a ringing phone in terror. Can't say why exactly that is. A ringing phone is pure potential. It is emblematic of literally everything that can be imagined. Or at least spoken. That idea is too broad for me to accept with enthusiasm, much less actually enjoy. I guess I also don't like talking on the phone much. Anyway, a cell phone almost demands that you multitask while using it, and that is something I mostly cannot do. Therefore, when I do answer a phone, I resign myself to sitting very still and focussing on an amoeba on the surface of my eyeball and agreeing with whatever the person on the other end is saying. Which explains why I almost felt relief when Miss ______ told me my latest graphics assignment was being killed before it really started; I knew I'd be off the phone in about 30 seconds.
When a gig gets killed, there's usually a kill fee that comes with it, which means, "Here ya go, kid. For your troubles." Not what the finished piece would've brought in, but not so small that you can't afford to cry about it over a few pitchers. But shit. It does hurt, doesn't it? Getting dumped is never easy, and this is the most non-personal, bureaucratic kind of dump. Was it me? What was it? Let's go through the list, which always starts with hygiene for some reason. Should I have showered? Then conduct. Was I ever sexist? Then rate. Did I ask for too much? Then, finally. Ability. Am I a hack?
By and large, it's good to have a project shot down here and there and it has happened. You grow a little bit and it keeps your teeth sharp. But the loss is yours and only you know what that feels like. It's like never giving birth; you're just picking baby names. Was that sexist?
"The network decided to go with an in-house solution."
I don't know what that means. I guess it's meant to mean nothing. But I'll assume it means I'm just too radical.